


Low Burn

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Camping, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-06
Updated: 2009-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel and Jack get some time to themselves at a quiet campground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Burn

**Author's Note:**

> For the insta-quick-post-it-don't-sweat-it-athon, prompt 'fire.'

The peacefulness of the campground settled deep into Daniel's bones as the last blue of evening gave way to a glitter of stars beyond the pines and aspen. Breezes carried the chill of night into the warmth around the firepit like messages reporting the drop in temperature, signing off with a rustling tremble of leaves as they died away. Up here at nine thousand feet, on the west slope of Pikes Peak, there could be a frost overnight even in midsummer. But the fire -- mainly for pleasure, although Jack had grilled steaks over it for supper, and robustly blazing now that the cooking was done and the big mother log was burning well -- warmed the front of him and the hot chocolate warmed the inside of him, and he felt serenely cocooned in his sand chair and windproof fleece. The partyers at the loud site had gotten an early start and called it a commensurately early night, turning off their music and turning in, and the big group occupying the two sites across the loop had gone down to the day-use area for an open view of the sky. It was just him and Jack and the campfire now, the truck and the tent behind them, the bear box off to one side, the picnic table to the other. Now and then the breeze whispered its soft message through the aspens, or a nightbird called, or a skunk or raccoon rustled through the underbrush; the loudest sounds were the low roar of the campfire and its cracks and intermittent pops.

"Nice, huh?" Jack said, lowering himself into his own chair, and reached for the mug he'd set on a flat-rock coaster on his far side.

"I like the neighborhood," Daniel said. "Quiet. Safe."

Jack would know what he meant. Little likelihood of alien attack here in Mueller State Park. No need to set a perimeter, stand watch; safe drinking water close to hand, not to mention restrooms, showers; the luxury of a profligate fire. They'd gathered and chopped the wood themselves, not from survival necessity but because they felt like it -- if supreme laziness had beckoned they could have just bought a cord of firewood and thrown it in the back of the truck. Deputy Satler's going-begging reservation had been for a tent site, not a cabin, which suited Daniel just fine, and they hadn't even had to hike in. Courtesy of the Coleman stove, they'd had rice and beans with the steak, and breakfast would be French toast and bacon and a fried-up scramble of whatever eggs were left in the dipping bowl. Daniel hadn't done any recreational camping before, and certainly never car camping. He'd thought it might feel like a busman's holiday, but Jack was right. It was ... nice. More than nice. Compared with what he was used to, it was the lap of luxury.

It was wonderful, to sit like this, basking peacefully in Jack's company. No creeping guilt that he was taking illicit pleasure in Jack's nearness, no tension from trying not to take pleasure in it at all. They hadn't come up here to relax. They'd come up here to relax with each other. Being with Jack, appreciating Jack, wasn't just allowed -- it was the point.

"Mmm," Jack acknowledged, sipping his hot chocolate. No alcohol, by unspoken agreement, and Jack seemed happy to indulge the sweet tooth he kept barely concealed at work.

It wasn't the only taste Jack kept concealed at work, although it was the only one he didn't bother hiding completely, and it wasn't the only tacit agreement.

They'd brought only one tent, Jack's old four-man dome. While Daniel was building the fire, Jack had gone in and opened their bags across both Thermarests, one over the other; while Jack was off scrounging for extra kindling, Daniel had gone in and zipped them together. The question had been asked and answered a dozen ways in the past week, a hundred ways in the past year. Those actions were the confirming query-response. They hadn't talked about what would happen, how far it would go, what sort of experience they were bringing to it; it would be whatever it was when the time came.

Daniel was in no rush. A long time since he'd been a teenager, fumblingly overeager and nervously hesitant by turns, beside himself with excitement at the prospect of the time and privacy for a sexual encounter, wired and uptight in the event. The longer they sat here by the fire, the more deeply content he became to just sit. To just soak in the forested serenity and savor the calm, easygoing presence of Jack beside him.

They sipped their drinks and chatted quietly about whatever came to mind. How the baseball season was shaping up, Jack's perennial cautious optimism for his Cubs, Daniel's fandom for the sport rather than any particular team. Daniel relayed Teal'c's characterization of it as chess with projectiles, and Jack gave a rich, low chuckle that warmed through Daniel more sweetly than the drink. Jack relayed a funny conversation he'd overheard in an SGC corridor, Dave Dixon on his yearly doomed crusade to get a softball team together, Siler's implacable resistance to his overtures; as the big log transformed into energy and a latticed crumble of white ash, they assembled starting line-ups for two fantasy hardball teams, Tau'ri vs. Goa'uld, and wound up ranging into speculation on how the sport of space polo might be played. It was nice to measure time by the burning of a log, the turning of the stars, the weight of the pot that held the hot chocolate. Daniel poured the last of it into Jack's mug and handed it to him, and Jack's fingers closed on his before sliding between to close on the mug. When he sat back down, he stretched a leg out, and Jack unbent a leg and let it fall against his, a warm, easy weight. They decided that space croquet would be more fun and challenging than space polo. They talked about sports they'd seen on other worlds, compared sports they'd watched in different countries on Earth, compared the countries they'd been to. Listed them, and came up even.

After a while, Daniel turned his head and looked, because he could, and didn't turn it back to look away towards the fire, because he didn't have to. Starlight brought out a soft shine in the silver in Jack's hair, dappled the rugged clothes that seemed more quintessentially Jack to him now than any military uniform. Firelight warmed and deepened Jack's equally rugged face; contentment and safety eased his features into a startling beauty. His eyes had none of the hard watchfulness Daniel was accustomed to in environments like this, and the gaze Jack slid briefly over to him, before he smiled to himself at Daniel's regard and wordlessly sipped from his mug, was soft and happy, with the barest glint of reflected flame.

The almost secretive smile, reaching up to crinkle the corner of Jack's eye while the drink occupied his lips and then rejoining his mouth in a sweet, lingering curve as he swallowed, ignited a burn low in Daniel's belly. He let his gaze drift down the long, muscular lines of Jack's legs, admiring the cling of denim; he let himself think about the package cupped in those jeans. How it would feel, filling his hand if he straddled Jack's hard thighs and unzipped and spread and scooped; the tender softness of the foreskin under his fingers as he slid it down, the fleshy taste of the head when he bent to take it into his mouth, the throbbing swell as he gently sucked it hard, the tart bite of the first drop of semen on his tongue. The freedom to daydream was inebriating, heady; snugged comfortably in his sand chair, lapped by firelight, caressed by woodsy breeze, he went down on Jack while Jack sat comfortably beside him, and it was OK. No more guilt. No more blinders. No more hushing and shooing of his stubborn, inconvenient libido or his mutinous heart.

"Whatcha doin' in there?" Jack asked softly.

"You," Daniel replied. "You?"

"Thinkin' it's probably time to turn in," Jack said. "But thinkin' I'm pretty happy right where I am. Shame to douse this fire."

It had burned down nicely -- low flames, a lot of heat; it was a perfect cooking fire now, no longer a spectacular conflagration but peacefully mesmerizing to watch, awash in rivulets of heat, a molten radiance. Before they turned in, they'd still have to go rinse out the pot and mugs, put them in the truck, check around the site ... and in truth Daniel wasn't quite ready to trade this comfortable companionship for the initial chill of a cold sleeping bag, even with Jack sliding into it next to him, even though that slide of flesh against flesh was going to be unimaginable ecstasy. "So don't," he said. "Not yet." He pulled his legs up and grabbed the arms of his chair and with two scooches got it moved over to a finger's-width from Jack's. He settled back down, leg pressed against Jack's, arm pressed against Jack's, and smiled, warmly, broadly -- comfortable, content, in love, and in no hurry. "This is nice."

"Yeah," Jack said, as if he was a little surprised to hear Daniel say it, and then nodded, and said "Yeah" again, and smiled. He settled back too, and then lifted his arm from against Daniel's, braced the elbow on the back support bar of Daniel's chair, and stroked his hand down the back of Daniel's head to slide his fingers under the jacket's collar and lay his palm on the skin of Daniel's neck, warm and sure. "Really nice."

Daniel dropped his arm over the armrest of Jack's chair and laid his hand on Jack's thigh with a warm squeeze. The breeze whispered through the leaves, Jack's thumb whispered along Daniel's hairline, Daniel's fingers murmured along Jack's inner thigh, the heavens turned a degree or two. The fire burned lower and hotter until it was the memory of fire snugged under a charcoal blanket, and the only light came from the stars, and it was time for bed.


End file.
